


The Things Left Behind

by Jinmukang



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Clones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Crisis, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Let's just give the Batfam another kid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22633579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinmukang/pseuds/Jinmukang
Summary: "They say fingerprints are made up of an individual's genetic makeup and of the life experiences that individual encounters the more their life progresses."Bruce looks up from Dick's hand, his fingers rubbing the pads of Dick's fingers and Dick can only stare wide eyed as Bruce let's go of Dick's hand and stands back, arms folded across his chest."I suppose, you're living proof of that," Bruce concludes.Or: It’s not the first time someone in the superhero community has been cloned.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Everyone
Comments: 86
Kudos: 321





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: canon typical violence, minor panic attacks, mentions of vomiting.
> 
> Sorry for the sheer excess of DC stuff lately. I’ve been in the mood for it *shrugs*

When he wakes up, all he knows is floating. He's a whisp, a mere thought existing in the plains of nothingness, no light or dark to be seen. Ears do not hear, tongue doesn't taste. He can't find his eyelids to blink. But he knows he's awake. He can tell because there's a burning on his chest that feels like he's inhaled gasoline and swallowed a match. It's agonizing, and if he could track down where his voice ran off to, he would whimper.

But he can't. He can't do a thing. He's just floating there, awake but unaware. Something close to consciousness yet too far away to get a good grasp on it, almost like he’s just barely brushing it with the tips of his fingers like one would while trying to grab a box of cereal on the highest shelf of the pantry. 

He can feel his heart pounding somewhere inside of him. He can't make sense of himself but he knows that the pounding is definitely real, and definitely a heart. He's alive. Awake.

Stuck. 

He focuses on the pounding, the beat rattling his ribs like an instrument, and he keeps focusing until the gas fire in his lungs is almost able to be ignored, he keeps focusing until he can hear the instrument called his heart. 

He can feel it in his jaw. Behind his eyes. Under his tongue. With each steady _bum boom_ he becomes more and more aware of himself, aware enough to hear beeping begin to harmonize with his heart somewhere to his... Left? Yes. His left. Because he can feel gravity resting on his body like a blanket, pressure on his back hinting that he's laying down on top of it. The beeping is definitely to his left, just like how his heart is slightly to the left in his chest cavity, or how he always wears a bracelet made out of thread on his right wrist or how there's a scar just to the right of his bellybutton where he got his first gunshot wound.

A nasty one, that was. 

Bruce didn't let him back out on the streets for- for…

Bruce?

He can't hear his heart anymore, but he can hear his own breathing pick up with panic and confusion, which only makes his lung burn more, like a fire in an enclosed building but the glass windows have exploded, letting more oxygen in.

Bruce!

Where is he? What was he doing? Why does everything hurt so much? A whimper finally escapes his lips—it looks like he's found his voice—and he tries to open his eyes, yet they feel heavy. Super heavy. _Super_ man heavy. Holy bucket of lead, Batman! He can't open his eyes!

He's only partly aware of the beeping to his left growing louder and quicker, like a conductor is speeding up the tempo by waving his hands desperately, the players of the orchestra now beginning to struggle to keep up. He curls his fingers, and it's agonizing, and something wet if trailing down his cheeks.

Where's Bruce? What is going on? Why does he hurt so much? His heads spinning and now he can't tell right from left, beeping from pounding, his eyes from his mouth from his chest from his toes. It's like he's thrown into a blender and the only thing he recognizes anymore is the agony of fire spreading from his lungs to the rest of his body and-

And the world explodes into noise and somehow his eyes open on their own. 

It does nothing to calm him down. 

Does nothing to staunch the fire. 

All it does is allow his weak, impossibly heavy, and incredibly blurry eyes to see a white room with dim lights become a mess of shadows and moving figures in navy blue and white clothes. He blinks and his vision clears ever so slightly, but he can now feel more wetness trailing down his cheeks and he realizes with horror that he's crying. 

He can't be crying. He's been trained by the best to _never_ cry again.

But he's crying, and he can now recognize the shadows moving around him as people. People in scrubs, in lab coats, with hair pulled up in buns and face masks around their necks and tools in their hands. Panicked, he tries to squirm away, but hands grasp onto his fighting limbs and all he can do is panic and cry and whimper as he's forced to stay still and something pinches into the crook of his arm. 

He blinks. More fears fall, but after a few seconds of crying and tugging his limbs, his eyelids begin to feel heavy again. As do his arms. He's lost his fingers again, and when the hands let go he doesn't move, he doesn't have the energy to. It's taking too much energy to even keep his eyelids open, and he's thinking he should close them soon because the beeping to his left is quieting and harmonizing with his heart again, and it's almost like a lullaby. The fire is like a smolder now, barely enough to warm coals.

A hand waves in front of his eyes and he tries his best to follow it, but he can't seem to focus on anything.

"Why did he wake up-" someone asks.

"-must be in so much pain-" another remarks.

"-p dosage?" 

"It's dangerous-" 

Mummering now. He can't follow it. He's lost most of his body now, but he can still kinda see and his mouth is still here. 

"Sss-" he tries, and the voices stop. A hand on his shoulder. It's enough to anchor him.

"What was that, honey?" 

"Brss…" he tries again, but his tongue is numb. No. No, not numb. Far away. Like it's on the other side of the room. 

The hand stays, squeezes slightly. "Is that your name?" 

He would shake his head if his neck wasn't gone. So instead he blinks twice. 

_Don't talk Robin; one for yes, two for no._

"D'k," he says, fighting to grab his tongue and keep it in his mouth for a minute longer. "D-D'ck Grrr…"

He slurs. He can't finish. His eyes close against his will and he doesn't know where his tongue went. 

"Grrr.…snnn…"

There's no fire. He can't feel the hand on his shoulder. He can't feel anything at all. He's back to where he's started, floating.

Awake. Unaware. 

But it's not long before he loses awake too.

-o-o-o-o-

When he wakes up the second time, he instantly knows he's not in the same place as before. He knows this because he's been trained to notice things even if he's drugged to Kingdom Come, even if he's unaware that he's noticing things in the first place.

He noticed the white walls. The air tainted with cleaning chemicals. The beeping. The scratchy fabric of the pillow behind his head. It's not much, but it's enough to recognize that the room he opens his eyes to—with the glinting, off-white walls, the warm air that feels nothing but comforting, the subtle lack of any noise besides his own steady breathing, the soft fabric behind the back of his neck and the fluffy pillow puffing up around his ears—is not the same one as before.

If there wasn't one last stark difference from that last time, he would almost think that wherever he is now, it's homier. More welcoming. 

But there is one last difference. And that difference is that even though last time he does remember being physically restrained, a fuzzy inkling at the back of his mind informed him that if was simply worried hands trying to keep him from hurting himself.

The itchy straps around his wrists now tell a different story. 

A sharp gasps escapes his mouth as he tries to tug on the restraints, kicking his legs only to find they too are pinned down by something tight around his ankles. He frantically looks down at his wrists, easily in sight because there is a striking lack of anything on top of him. No blankets. Nothing but the short sleeved and incredibly thin nightgown that hardly reaches his knees. Everything else is bare, allowing him a clear view towards where his wrists are trapped with thick velcro straps against metal bars fencing the side of the bed he's laid out in. 

Instantly, he's frantically trying to figure out what he should do. What needs to be done. A voice in the back of his head chastises him to not do anything before he knows who he is. 

" _Are you Richard? Or are you Robin? If you can't remember or you don't know, pretend you don't know who you are at all. Wait it out until you're sure, wait until your captors tell you. Wait for me to find you. Don't give away who you are unless it's your life that's on the line_."

He doesn't know who he is. Is he Robin stripped of his colors? Or is he Dick held hostage for ransom? He can't remember what he was doing before all of this. He can't remember anything at all.

He's pretty sure both Robin and Dick would test the restraints, though, if not just a little bit. 

A little bit. He reminds himself as he tugs a little harder than what he was planning. His heart is in his throat and he tries to swallow it as he tugs again, somehow harder than what he had before.

His breathing all of a sudden quickens up against his will, without any permission. 

A little bit, Grayson. A _little bit_. 

But he's tugging harder, kicking his legs, something close to panic beginning to wrap around him like someone had mercilessly thrown a bola at him. He closes his eyes, tries to control his breath, not knowing why he's so terrified all of a sudden. He's been restrained before. Many times. Some exactly like this, pressed against a surface with straps of velcro or leather or cloth or metal wrapped around his limbs, pinning him down like a butterfly with needles in its wings. 

He's been restrained to beds. To cots. To tables. To metal tab-

_Metal tables. His eyes open and he's somewhere else, lungs gasping and heaving, forcing him to cough and gag on water spilling from his mouth all over the floor. Hands wrap so roughly around his bare arms that he's sure they'll bruise later, but he can't do a thing to fight the hands as he's dragged across the floor, his legs wobbling like a newborn fawn as gel-like liquid clings to his bare skin and drips to the floor with his vomit. The fingers dragging him don't care, they don't even flinch as he tries to fight them, tries to get out of their grasp to- to he doesn't know. Cover himself? Expel his burning lungs of more burning liquid? Tries to catch his breath? But the hands remain firm, and goosebumps pop from his skin all over, shivers making it all the more harder to control his body as he's hefted upwards and slammed down onto a table that must be made of ice. He cries out, the cold already sinking so deep that it feels like he's being grilled alive, but no one listens, and his struggles become weak as he's easily overpowered- his wrists forced down above his head, his legs straightened and held in place for clamps to snap across each appendage- and he can do nothing but groan and whimper and try to not choke on the liquid bubbling in his mouth with each cough, each gasp, each cry, each breath and he's so scared and he doesn't know what's happening or where he is and_ **_who_ ** _he is and-_

And something brushes his mind, like a feather, and he's left gasping, the world blurs and all he can see is reds and whites and creams and blues and greens and he finds himself spiraling away, or towards something, he's not sure; it's all at the speed of light, and it leaves him grasping for- for something he can't remember. 

He can't remember because the colors are sharpening, shifting, stabilizing, and he's back. Back from where? He can't remember that either. All he knows is that he's backed against a headboard, arms curling around his chest and knees brought up so close he can rest his chin on them. Right in front of him is… is a green man? 

"Have you returned to us?" The man asks, his voice deep and… and comforting. Something brushes against his brain again and he winces, bringing his hands—his free hands?—to his ears and beginning to chant every element on the periodic table in alphabetical order instead of by proton. The green man smiles slightly, perhaps instantly knowing that Dick has found him out and is doing everything in his power to get that feather out of his mind. 

It doesn't leave, but it doesn't brush again. 

"You gave us a scare," the man continues—Boron. B. 5. Bromine. Br. 35—"I could feel your panic from the other room. I must apologise for that."

Cadmium. Cd. 48. Calcium. Ca. 20. "Who are you?" Dick asks. Californium. Cf-

"98." 

Dick's blood freezes. He didn't even feel the brush. 

"Get out of my head," he whispers, and the man smiles sadly. 

"I'm afraid I cannot do that. Not now."

Dick bites the inside of his cheek. "Then when?"

The green man opens his mouth, but then he closes it right as the door to the room suddenly slams open. Dick fights a flinch and looks towards the door with wide eyes, feeling similar to how a deer trapped in the headlights might. 

Then: shock, surprise, relief, and _confusion_ take over every other emotion he could possibly be feeling. 

"I told you to wait," Batman growls, and Dick feels a chill run down his spine. He's heard Bruce angry before. Pissed. But this? This is //livid, and he's terrified to find out why. 

The feather brushes his mind again, prompting him to calm down and relax, but all it does is spike his heart rate as Batman stalks up towards the green man and Dick's bed like some sort of wild big cat, waiting for the perfect opportunity to go towards the throat. 

Why does it feel like it's Dick's throat that he's after?

"He was panicking," the green man calmly says back. 

"Batman?" Dick asks, but Batman doesn't even look his way. Instead, he glares at the loose straps hanging limply where his wrists and ankles used to be a few minutes before. 

"You were supposed to observe only," Batman says, sending the green man a cool glare. Dick almost wants to commend the man for not withering under it.

"It was cruel to leave him in his panicked state," the green man argued back. 

Batman's jaw tightens and pops, giving away his anger. Dick curls up further against the headboard of the bed and tries to make sense of what's going on. Is this a test? Dick almost wants to reach forward and grab at Batman's cape like what he would do when he's Robin and Batman is too angry to do anything but hyper focus on it. But before he could do a thing an ice cold glare is sent his way and it feels like hell freezes over inside his own chest. 

"What is your name." 

A demand. Dick doesn't have a choice in answering, even though that's a strange question. He looks at Batman with confusion, trying to figure out what he's trying to do, thinking maybe he's had a concussion and Batman is trying to make sure…?

A brush against his brain, subtle but he notices it this time. He grabs his ears tighter and instinctively tried to think of the next element. 

"I do not think it's wise to do this now," the green man says, "the boy's panicked enough-"

"You were supposed to observe only until we conducted a proper interrogation," Batman snaps back, "however not only have you let him know of our presence, you've let him out of the restraints as well. We will start the questioning now." Batman turns back to Dick, his stare feeling like the most heavy thing in the world. Dick has to fight to not crumple under it. "Now. What. Is. Your. Name."

"D-" Dick glances at the green man—who is currently frowning but by the feeling of a feather resting on the tip of his mind, he knows the green man has decided to follow Batman's orders despite their short argument. Dick doesn't know why he feels betrayed. "Robin."

Batman narrows his eyes at him and doesn't say anything, and Dick has the feeling he didn't give the name he wanted. The feather presses a little harder, feeling almost like an acupuncture needle, and he swallows.

"Dick Grayson," he corrects himself, if not to stop the needle from poking further. "Batman, what's-"

"Do you know where you are," Batman continues and Dick has to resist biting his lip.

"No, I-"

"Do you know why you're here."

"I- I don't-"

"Do you know who I am."

Dick pauses at this one, something ancient inside of him screaming at him to close his mouth and keep it locked shut. _Never give away our secret identities unless you're in life threatening danger._

But Batman wouldn't ask that question if he didn't want it answered. He risks a glance at the green man, the needle not making any moves, and the green man gives him a strange yet encouraging smile. Dick licks his lips and swallows. 

"Bruce Wayne," he whispers. "Bruce- what's going on?"

"What is the date?"

What is the date? Dick's brain is starting to hurt and he's so confused, but Bruce isn't letting up. "I don't-"

"The year then. What is the year."

The needle pokes, and it's beginning to be painful.

"2020," Dick says without thinking, then his eyes widen and he stills, staring at Bruce in horror. "But that can't be right…"

"When were you born?"

"March 20, 1994… first day of spring…" Dick whispers, "but I'm- that would make me… 26? But I'm-"

"But you have the appearance of a nine year old," Bruce concludes, his face softening for the first time since this all started. "I believe this officially rules out time travel, yet I've ruled that out from the start. And, it also unofficially rules out multi-universal travel, since most multi-verses are known to run on a reasonable measurement of time."

_Except for the one that doesn't_ , Dick wants to say. Would say. If he didn't have a stone in his stomach. 

"Tell me, have you ever heard of Kon-El?"

Dick startles, the name sounds almost familiar, but not because he's heard it before. "Like Kal-El? Superman?"

"You've never heard of _Kon_ -El?" Bruce presses and Dick slowly shakes his head. 

"Alright. Then answer me this, because I know you know the answer to this one," Bruce says, and it's now Dick realizes the needle has returned to a feather, just barely touching his consciousness. Whatever reason they felt Dick warranted a _powerful_ psychic to keep track of Dick's inner thoughts must have passed now. They got whatever information they needed, the information they thought Dick might lie about.

Suddenly, the feather brushes against his mind, but in a different way now. It's not threatening, or prodding as it had been before. It's almost telling him to pay attention. He blinks just as Bruce leans forward, taking off his cowl, and Dick almost flinches. 

He's _older_ than what he remembered. No… expected? But that makes no sense. 

"Do identical twins have identical fingerprints?" Bruce asks, deep blue eyes penetrating into Dick's soul, further than what the green man could ever do with his feathers and needles. 

Dick stops and thinks for a second. His first year of Robin, there was a girl who murdered her ex boyfriend because he cheated on her with her identical twin. The fingerprints left behind were all the evidence they needed to track the murder to her, but she tried to frame her twin sister. She was very disappointed to find that even though they were identical down to the shape of their toes, the fingerprints didn't lie.

"No," he says slowly, "fingerprints are unique to every individual's DNA, and are formed through life experiences. Like snowflakes," he adds. An unneeded comment but Bruce didn't chastise him for it. 

Instead, Bruce holds out his hand, lifting an eyebrow. Dick doesn't know why, but he looks at the green man. For permission? For assurance?? He doesn't know, but the green man nods slowly, that strange alien like smile on his face twitching, and Dick releases one of his hands from the side of his face. Bruce takes it, not roughly but not gently. 

Calculative. Examining. Like a scientist looking at a particularly interesting set of data.

"53 hours ago, a woman named Maria Hays and her partner Jey Lovestrong went on a hike in the forests outside of Gotham, perhaps to get a fresh breath of air," Bruce says, running his large, callused hands over Dick's smaller fingers. Dick is almost too afraid to move, so he remains still, silent, and simply does nothing but listen. "An hour into their walk, something caught Lovestrong's attention. In their words, it was a bad feeling, something was wrong. No birds were singing. They convinced Hays to follow them off the trail, where they eventually stumbled across a naked child passed out between the roots of a large tree. Authorities were called, and the child was taken towards the hospital. 

"Nothing was wrong with him besides a strange excess of liquid in his lungs. Easily pumped out. No risk of infection. The liquid, after some testing, seemed to be extremely rich in oxygen. Safe for a human to breath, just painful to do so. Gives you the feeling of drowning without actually drowning. Or that's what they theorized, the child never woke up, so they couldn't ask him. 47 hours ago, the child was sent as a Jon Doe into a private room until he woke. That's when the Batcomputer was pinged the first time. You see, Dick, I don't update my files. I simply add to them. Especially when it has to do with the genetic makeup of each person who works with me. Blood types. Hair. Sweat. Dental records. 

"The dental records of a nine years old Dick Grayson alerted the computer. An hour later, the computer got yet another ping when the child woke up briefly, just to say their name was something close to Dick Grayson, and that they mentioned a name perhaps sounding like Bruce.

"I, of course, came in and made it official Justice League business. I arrived just after the computer got yet another ping, one not relating to my partners, but to a general alert I'd like to be made aware of. Precaution wise.

"They say fingerprints are made up of an individual's genetic makeup and of the life experiences that individual encounters the more their life progresses."

Bruce looks up from Dick's hand, his fingers rubbing the pads of Dick's fingers and Dick can only stare wide eyed as Bruce let's go of Dick's hand and stands back, arms folded across his chest. 

"I suppose, you're living proof of that," Bruce concludes. 

But Dick isn't listening anymore. He's looking at his hands. His fingers. Something he's never thought of studying before. 

They're soft. Smooth. 

Blank.

There's nothing there. 

"What does this mean?" Dick whispers, trying to keep the terror from wobbling his voice. He doesn't succeed. His hands start shaking, because he cannot stop looking at his prints. Or lack of. 

And, unapologetically blunt as ever, Bruce answers. "It means you're not the real Dick Grayson. Dick Grayson is 25 years old and is currently sitting two rooms over, waiting for when it's his turn to talk to you. You, kid, are simply a copy of him. A clone. Someone somehow got ahold of the real Dick Grayson's DNA and made you, and somehow managed to stuff the correct information into your head to make you believe that you are the real one."

A pause. Dick- he- who is he? He doesn't know what to say. Bruce's- _Batman's_ face softens. 

"We had to be cautious, which is why we had you restrained. This isn't the first time this has happened, each attempt at a clone is getting better, we had to make sure you mean no threat awake so we can sufficiently check for any sleeper agent protocols and eventually get you going on a normal life. Do you understand?"

Kon-El. Kal-El.

Huh.

The clone looks at his blank hands a moment more, no one saying anything, until he takes a deep breath and looks Batman in the eyes. 

"No," he whispers, his voice shaking, liquid falling from his eyes. "I don't understand."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. Hi? I planned to um. Work on this sooner?
> 
> But then it became "after this next project..." Kind of WIP. I wanted to finish my Bad Things Happen Bingo series before starting this back up, but I figured with the multiple mental breakdowns I've had the past few days, I needed a little bit of a breather from writing straight angst. 
> 
> This is short. I'll explain reasons and my plans for this fic in the end notes. For now? Enjoy <3

Before meeting Dick Grayson, the clone had tried to assure himself that it could be worse. He could be whoever this Kon-El guy is. Imagine being him; emerging into the world to find he'd nothing more than a bad copy of the _Superman_. Imagine living up to that?

But now, as the clone sits in the bat-jet—which he can't help but want to squeal at how cool that is no matter how bad of an existential crisis he's currently having is—in a padded leather seat with Batman at the wheel and _Nightwing_ in the passenger, he knows that this is much worse.

Dick Grayson? He's perfect. 

And it sets every single one of the clones nerves on fire. 

Because he smiled when he walked into the clones hospital room. He grinned and waved and turned towards Batman with a glint in his eyes. 

"Golly, B! You didn't tell me I was so cute back then!"

And the clone wanted to throw up then and there. He wanted to grab at his fingertips and carve in prints himself with his own fingernails. But he didn't, he just sat there and marveled, words escaping his mouth before he could stop himself. 

"You look like dad," the clone said and he immediately regretted it. John Grayson wasn't his dad. He shouldn't have said that. 

But the real Dick Grayson just beamed at him. Kneeled down in front of him, seemingly unaware of the clones internal panic. "So do you," he said, a glint in his eyes. "I can see mom in you too. Her nose, her eyes."

And the conversation went from there. The real Dick kept calling the clone by his name, the name that doesn't belong to him. He talked and talked and talked, asking questions and telling memories and stories. The clone could tell what he was trying to do, he was trying to figure out where the clone's memories started and where they ended. How much information did the people who cloned him have about the real Dick Grayson. How much the Justice League is in danger of information leakage. 

Turns out; a whole lot. 

It took a lot of questioning, but they've managed to find that the clone's memories start from Dick Grayson's own earliest memories— _a mess of red hair and a smiling face as his mother carried him up to the highest place in the circus tent. "See, little robin? One day you'll be the star of the show. You will fly."_ —up until somewhere within Dick's first year as Robin. His "recent" memories are a lot more fuzzier, but there is certain information that he knows he has. Things like Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent and Joker and Two-Face and Batmobiles and Batcaves. 

And the thing that's scary is that some of his "memories" are more clear than the original Dick Grayson's. And the more he thinks about them, the more he just _knows_ stuff. Like he's not actually remembering… he's just pulling information. 

" _Remember that dress mom would always wear just for the fun of it? All sparkling and red, it made her hair look on fire_."

" _Yeah… it had pretty lace_."

" _It… did_?"

The clone doesn't have a single memory of his own. Nothing he's talked about with the real Dick Grayson earlier today has been his own knowledge. 

It was all knowledge implanted in him by an unknown villain. 

"-o what do you think?"

The clone blinked and looked up from where he's been rubbing the tips of his fingers together to find the real Dick looking right at him, his mask off and his eyebrows drawn together ever so slightly. In worry perhaps. In worry for the clone or in worry of what the clone's existence could mean, he doesn't know. And it's weird, out of all people the clone feels like he should be able to read himself best. 

"What?" He asks, realizing the real Dick has been talking for the last who knows how long and the clone has missed all of it. 

The real Dick's mouth twitches in an almost smile. Like what mom—like what the real Dick's mom used to do when she was pretending to think something was funny when it really wasn't. 

"I was just asking if you wanted to eat and go to bed before or after meeting the rest of the family," the real Dick explains, his voice soft and understanding. The clone hates it, and he rubs at the tips of his fingers a little more. 

But his brain also stumbles on the last word. "Family?" 

A genuine smile passes over the real Dick's face and _now_ the clone can see mom. 

The real Dick's mom… that is. 

"Yeah, remember? I was just telling you about them," the real Dick says. "B adopted more kids after us, kiddo."

And that entire sentence makes the clone want to throw up for reasons he can't grasp onto all at the same time. Adopted? More kids? And then there's the whole _us_ word like Dick sees him as the same person he was when he was a kid, like there's nothing wrong wrong _wrong_ about him. 

And… and the clone might be wrong wrong _wrong_ , but he… he _knows_ he never wanted Bruce to adopt him. The real him. Whatever—but he knows it. He knows that he- that the real Dick loved his parents so much and wouldn't give them up for the world. 

And he grows up? Gets adopted? Replaces John and Mary with Bruce and has the audacity to smile when he talks about _more_ kids?

Like they're one, big happy family?

And it sends his stomach clenching, bubbling in a way that makes him think he might gag. 

Because it angers him. It makes the bones in his wrists feel like they're splintering. 

But they're also feelings that don't belong to him. And that makes everything shatter. Spiderwebs spreading across his artificial soul until all he can do is look down at his fingertips and swallow.

"Oh."

It's silent for a while. The clone is too afraid to look up and see the silent glances the real Dick—just call him Dick, because the clone has no right to even consider himself having any claims to the name—and Bruce must be passing to each other. 

In the end, the clone doesn't meet anyone. They're gone when they reach the cave. No one but him, Bruce, and Dick when they walk into the manor. For a moment, the clone feels his throat choke up with the gaping lack of _Alfred_ , but then he has no right to wonder and worry about the man. 

He's led to a bedroom, one close to Dick's room, but it's nothing like the room the clone remembers… knows… at all. It's shaped differently. The covers are different. Cream colored with weaving green designs that look like shrubbery and vines. Nothing compared to the gradient blue he remembers— _knows_ —the real Dick's was. He picked it out himself. 

Dick mumbles something about getting comfortable and looking around before he turns and leaves with the promise of being right back. 

Bruce stayed in the cave to do… something that the clone is probably best not knowing. 

He lets his eyes trail around the room, taking in the off-white color of the walls, the soft green rug placed under the white framed bed, the window with sheer curtains that ties the room together with cream and more green, vine designs that match the comforter present on it as well. Next to the bed is a dresser with various nick knacks and trinkets decorating the surface that must have been recently dusted, a bookshelf that's just flooded with books that bores the clone just by glancing at them, a vanity with nothing but a comb present by a second door leading to the walk-in bathroom and closet. The vanity is for more decoration than anything. Alfred would be upset if it was used for anything more than a quick brush up and cologne spray. A convenient place to straighten a tie. 

It's not his room. He slowly lowers himself down onto the comforter, hating how soft and stiff the mattress is, and runs his hands over the patterns of the vines. _It's not his room_. This is a guest room filled with things that are meant to present a feeling of lived in and loved, when it is quite the opposite. 

His chest feels swollen. 

Of course, that's when the bedroom door opens with a soft knock. The clone is once again hit with how much Dick looks like his father. And what makes it even worse… is that he's holding out a scrappy elephant stuffed animal that looks so much more worn than what… he thought it would look like. 

"I thought you could use her more than me tonight," Dick says, slowly sitting down next to the clone. His face too soft. Too opening. Too understanding. 

"You still sleep with her?" The clone asks, not taking the elephant from Dick's hands. Dick flashes a genuine smile and looks down at the animal he has in his lap. 

"Sometimes. When I need her." He then looks back at the clone, his hands rubbing the fabric of the ears, his favorite spot of the animal. "But I don't need her right now, so she's just been sitting on my bed. I'm sure she'll like some company tonight."

The clone blinks, his eyes oh so very heavy all of a sudden. Dick holds Zitka out and before the clone can even try to convince himself to not take it, he reaches out and grabs her—bringing her to his chest and clutching her like his life depends on it. 

Dick remains silent for a minute until a hesitant hand slowly falls on the clone's shoulder. 

"You'll be okay," Dick says, and the clone finally closes his eyes, burying his face into Zitka so Dick doesn't see the tears escape through his closed lids. "It will all be okay, Dick."

The name. The name that doesn't belong to him. It tears right through his ribs and scratches at his heart with relentless claws. 

He wants to scream. Cry out as loud as he can that he can't be called that. He doesn't deserve to be called that. He doesn't _want_ to be called that, but Dick begins to rub circles in his back and the clone finally lets out a choked sob.

"Oh, little robin," Dick whispers, gathering both the clone and Zitka into his arms and for a minute, the clone feels familiarity. John Grayson pulling him into his lap and rubbing the hairs at the back of his neck while he cried about falling off the trapeze and hurting his leg. He was barely a toddler, and the net should probably have been tighter woven, it wrapped around his little ankle when he landed on it. It was only his fifth time swinging. 

No. No it was _Dick's_ fifth time swinging. Does he remember that in such great detail? Does he remember John whispering the same things in his ear, the large hand on his back tracing the same handful of vertebrates between the shoulder blades? Or is this just how Grayson men are? So touching. So tactile. 

So loving. More loving than what is probably healthy. 

"It will be okay," Dick says again, and the clone shakes his head into Zitka's worn fur. 

"How…" he takes a deep, wet breath, his voice muffled by sadness and the softness of Zitka. "How do you know?"

The hand continues to rub. There's a huff of air through the strands of his hair and a jolt to Dick's chest, signifying probably a small laugh that didn't reach past the vocal cords. 

"Because you're a fighter."

Dick says it like he's sure. Like he has just as much faith in a clone—a clone that has potential sleeping agent protocols and came from seemingly _nowhere_ —as much as he would trust himself. 

The clone doesn't deserve it.

So he just continues to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I need a name for little clone!Dick. With how I want to progress the fic, I don't want to call him Dick or Dickie or [REDACTED] Ric [REDACTED] or something similar. I was thinking of just calling him John, and have a touching moment between Clone!Dick and Dick when Dick suggests the name of his father. 
> 
> But I figured I'd also ask you guys too.
> 
> Also, my original plans for this fic was to have it all written and planned out and scheduled and I figured... Nah? It became too stressful to sit down and chart out chapters and scenes and relationships so I decided to just... Take it as it goes?
> 
> Which is why I'm open to requests and scenes you guys want to see with Clone!Dick. Some things are set in stone, like who cloned Dick and how the Batfam is going to officially introduce Clone!Dick into the public world, but soft scenes between the fam is completely open to interpretation and such.
> 
> So leave requests! Want to see Dami and Clone!Dick become practically best friends? Want to watch Jason take Clone!Dick of a motorcycle ride through Gotham? Idk, what do you guys want to see in a series like this.
> 
> This sorta open requests thing is also why chapters are going to be short. Just so I can write scenes and get things out and progress the story in a way that makes sense and that's simple and not too taxing on my mental sanity lmaoo 
> 
> Thanks for reading guys!! The response on the first chapter was phenomenal. I only wrote that first chapter because I read an article on oxygen-rich liquid and wanted to use it as a whump-sort-of-deal on Dick but with how my BTHB series is I won't have a chance to explore that in mg official whump series. 
> 
> And I also... Don't want to write another whump focused fic. Let's write some good old classic angst and hurt/comfort. 
> 
> Anyway. I've rambled for too long. 
> 
> Make sure you leave a comment! I'd love to hear any feedback and ideas you guys night have. Thanks for reading! Hope you all are doing well <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall, what's great about writing this fic again after whumptober is that 1. i didn't have to come up with another freaking title and 2. this chapter ended up being long.
> 
> halfway through october and i could do nothing but think about this fic. 
> 
> so... i hope you enjoy this! i was really excited to write more... so much so that instead of taking a break from writing like i planned to i just barfed up all of this. i hope this is worth the wait! thank you all for your support so far!!!

When Dick wakes up, he’s almost forgotten that none of this is right. None of it is his. Not his body, not the bed he’s sleeping in, not the name that comes to the forefront of his mind every time he catches himself thinking about it. 

When Dick wakes up, he thinks he's Dick. The real Dick. The one that lives and breathes and has done those two things and so much more for 26 years. 17 more than this Dick has.

Or more. The fake Dick doesn't actually know how long it took for his fake body to be grown. What if he was literally born just a few days ago? A mere set of genetic strings floating inside a glass, person sized tube. 

When Dick wakes up, he's clutching Zitka like he swears he's always done since he's gotten her. Except, when he opens his eyes and pinches her flat ears between his blank fingertips, he sees that she looks too worn to be the Zitka he remembers. The fabric making up her fur too coarse, pills hanging off her that threaten to create holes if pulled too hard. 

Then, he remembers that those _memories_ of Zitka are not his. He remembers the blankets and comforter over his body belong to the guest room. He remembers the borrowed clothes that he doesn't recognize, that look too new to be 17 years old. They're a little big too, like they belong to another boy just a little bigger and a little older. 

Siblings. The real Dick mentioned siblings. Like Bruce was his dad. 

And suddenly, Dick- the _clone_ , wants to cry again. He wants to cry and hold Zitka until she's soaked in his tears. He wants to ugly sob, he wants to punch something, he wants to tear the curtains from the window and kick the legs of the vanity. He wants his hurt to be physical. He wants to be _real_. 

But he's not real. He's fake, and Bruce only took him home- to the manor because he must feel obligated to. 

So instead of standing up and expressing his fear and sorrow and anger, the clone curls up and sobs harder, trying not to think about the only thing he _can_ think of. 

What will happen to him now?

Tests maybe. First. To see if they can find clues as to who created him. Then they’ll see if he has any triggers that lead to sleeper agent tendencies. After that, they'll determine what kind of threat he is. If he's deemed worthy like this Kon-El person to try and build a life, or if he’s found too dangerous to be allowed to live freely. 

If he is allowed to live and start a new life, he knows Bruce won't want to keep him. He _has_ a Dick Grayson. A Dick Grayson who's all grown up and happy and a big _brother_ and a _son_. 

Something that the clone just can't see himself to ever be… let alone _want_.

Because, as much as these feelings are not his, they're also compelling. He doesn't want a dad. He's already _had_ a dad. He doesn't want brothers. He doesn't want sisters. He just wanted a place to live, a table to eat on, and someone to occasionally tell him they are glad he's around. 

But he doesn't… want a family. 

But those are Dick's feelings. Not his. Yet, somewhere along the way, Dick changed his mind. 

He wonders why. What changed? What made Dick decide to abandon Mary and John Grayson like this?

He can't comprehend it. 

And Bruce won't want to keep him anyway.

A soft knock on his door pulls him from his spiraling thoughts. He quickly wipes under his eyes with the fabric of the pillowcase then slowly sits up so he's sitting against the headboard. The door doesn't open; the clone wonders that maybe if he remains silent the person on the other side will just go away. However, he soon finds his silent hopes all for naught when once again the door is knocked upon; only this time it’s louder. 

The clone doesn't know if he can really deal with anyone at the moment. Maybe Alfred… but Bruce and _Dick_ will just make the tight feeling in his chest tighter. And what if it's one of the _siblings_? 

He doesn't know how he'll react if the door opens and it's a _sibling_. 

He bites his lip when the door knocks once again. A voice accompanies this one.

It's Dick. Because of course it is. 

"Hey Dickie?" Dick asks, and the name sends a knife through the clone's ribs. Dick shouldn't say his own name like that. It must taste horrible in his mouth. 

It tastes horrible in the clone's. 

"You up?" Dick's voices again. Older. Firmer. More mature than what the clone could have ever imagined. 

The clone swallows then decides he might as well rip off the band-aid. He gets out of the bedsheets, the borrowed oversized pajamas slipping down his shoulder and down his hips. He scrubs under his eyes one last time before he opens the door a crack. On the other side is the original version of his DNA, standing there, smiling too brightly for how early in the morning it must be. 

"Good morning," Dick greets, his knees bending ever so slightly to look less intimidating. And to think, Dick's always been small for his age, but here he is, bending down to not look over his younger clone. "You up for pancakes?"

Pancakes? Alfred's let sugar into the building? Man, more is different here than he thought. 

"I'm not… really hungry," the clone says, but then Dick's face scrunches up ever so slightly and the clone knows he's trapped. 

"You gotta eat something, squirt," Dick chides, "though I suppose it's still early, and I can tell Alf to hold off another hour, if you want. Maybe we can invite one of the others so you can finally meet-"

"I'll eat now," the clone bursts, then instantly feels bad about it when Dick's face falls ever so slightly. 

The clone shuffles his feet and tries to ignore the heat in spreading up his neck and through the tips of his ears. 

"I… don't want to bother Alfred..."

Even to the clone, the excuse sounds lame. However Dick doesn’t seem to have any intentions of calling him out on his lie. He can’t understand why Dick is letting him act like this. Lie. Be uncooperative. Take guest rooms and stuffed animals and clothes belonging to someone else. He shouldn’t have this understanding look on his face. He should be grabbing the clone by the arm and dragging him off to do what _they_ want him to do—just to quit being so _commendable_.

Instead, Dick smiles and begins to lead him through the empty manor. The clone tries not to think about who else could live here. Who else has roamed these hallways. Him being here must be throwing off the entire ecosystem of the place… keeping multiple people from coming home just because he's uncomfortable with meeting them.

 _After breakfast_ , the clone decides, _after breakfast_ he'll tell Bruce and Dick that they shouldn’t… that they don’t have to go out of their way anymore to keep their newest little intruder comfortable. Let the others come back to their home. 

It’s not his.

It’s not anything he has the right to have dictatorship over. His discomfort is meaningless. 

The moment the clone steps into the dining room, he immediately wishes to go back to bed. Already, little appetizers are set out—bowls of eggs, plates of sausage and bacon, butter with knives carefully placed besides each little dish—but there's no one else in the room besides the two of them. 

Which means when Dick sits down at his normal spot and the clone purposely sits somewhere else, he's helpless to stay there and watch as Dick stands up with his plate and walks over to sit across from the clone. 

The clone curls his fists under the table and diverts his gaze. 

Awkwardness settles between the two of them like a big ugly beast, and that awkwardness insists on staying there even as Dick reaches over and piles his plate with sausage. The clone bites the inside of his cheek and doesn’t move to do the same. He can tell Dick wants to comment on that, maybe even say something about trying the bacon and how Alfred’s bacon is the only kind that’s worth eating… but when he opens his mouth the door’s into the dining room open once again, and in walks none other than Bruce.

Panic reignites in his chest at the sight of the man before him. He’s like a tower, something eerie that practically has a visible aura of authority and intelligence. He carries himself with purpose despite the clear-as-day bags under his eyes and the deeper frown gracing his lips than normal. He definitely doesn’t look like sleep had visited him last night… he was probable up from sunset to sunrise trying to figure out where the clone came from and what to do with him.

Perhaps the minutes until his fate is to be decided is closer than he thinks.

The clone catches Bruce's eye for a second, a natural urge in him screaming to scramble up and grab onto his arm and _demand_ what is to be done. In his fake memories, he’s so used to the dynamic between the two of them. The trust. 

There’s none of that here. He just manages to keep glued to his seat as Bruce’s eyes widen like he’s forgotten the clone was here.

Bruce slows his walk ever so slightly as his eyes break from the clones and stare off slightly to the left with no purpose. "Good morning… Dick."

And the clone really wants to sink into nothing now, especially as the real Dick smiles and doesn't say anything. Willingly standing back as someone else is being referred to by his own name. 

The clone is curling his fists so tightly in the fabric of his pajamas he can almost feel the indents of his nails through the material. 

"Morning…" the clone says quietly.

Dick smiles brightly and turns towards Bruce. "Hey B!"

"Good morning…" Bruce sits down at the head of the table. "Dick..."

At least Dick's smile strains a little right there. Though, the clone can't tell if it's because of his name being thrown around, or if it's the unsure way Bruce says it. 

Bruce shouldn’t be unsure of who deserves the name _Dick_. He’d have to have been hit quite a few times in his head since the time of the clone’s memories to have forgotten who his _son_ is—and it’s _not_ the clone.

Either way, the clone sinks back into the chair as Dick and Bruce begin what seems too casual to be a morning conversation… he stays quiet and hopes he remains ignored at least until the end of breakfast. 

However, his attention is grabbed by Bruce clearing his throat. “So,” he says, “Dick… how did you sleep last night?”

The clone takes a second to realize that Bruce could only be talking to him, you know, judging off of how they both turn to look at him. He clears his throat awkwardly and shift’s in his seat. “It was okay…”

Bruce’s eyebrows fall. “What? You’ll have to speak up a little louder.”

The clone didn’t even realize he practically mumbled that. He clears his throat and desperately wishes that Poison Ivy would barge in and control the potted plant in the corner to grab him and drag him away from this entire situation. “I said it-”

The door opens, and in walks none other than Alfred. Tension tightens in his being, but he also can’t help but let out a sigh of relief.

Everything stills right then and there. The clone can only stare wide eyed as Alfred walks in with a smoothness that only he has and begins to set down trays of steaming hot pancakes. Seeing Alfred aches in a whole new way compared to Bruce and even Dick himself. The clone hasn’t seen hair nor hide of Alfred since he’s arrived, but seeing him now is further proof of the time gap he’s living in. 

He’s so much older. Skinnier. His face is covered in wrinkles he’s not sure he had before. The hair of his mustache is a little bit more gray.

“Good morning sirs,” Alfred says, a twinkle in his eye and a specific look towards each of his two charges. Then, his eyes settle on the clone and the clone almost finds himself bursting into pathetic sobs right there. A spark still sits in Alfreds eyes, and it shines so brightly that the way his mouth seems to fall into a barely concealed form almost goes unnoticed. “And welcome to the manor, young Master Dick.”

Then breakfast starts. The clone ducks his head to avoid Alfred’s sharp eyes and leans back as Dick reaches over the table to plop two fluffy pancakes onto his plate, already mumbling through bites of his own to try the blueberry syrup. 

He tries the blueberry syrup, just to get him off his back.

After that, things shockingly go okay for a little while longer—but the clone can tell the exact moment Bruce decides he wants to say something. He can see it in the way he clears his throat, tugs at one sleeve, sits up more straight, and taps the knife to make sure it's straight besides his empty plate. He can also tell in the way the real Dick tenses, because he's definitely noticed all of those tells as well.

The clone puts down the bite of pancakes he was about to pretend to eat down at the table, sucks in a breath of air, and then looks Bruce straight in the eye. 

This is it. This is when his fate is revealed and everyone can stop forcing themselves to be nice to him. 

"Dick…" Bruce starts, and the clone can't deny that he's the one being spoken to. Not when Bruce is staring him straight in the eye, like he would the real one. Like he probably would any of his other kids. "I… understand that it might be scary right now, but I promise this will all be figured out, and you can soon begin living like a normal child."

The clone blanks. He wasn't… expecting that. He looks over at the real Dick, who's currently wound tight like a cobra. The clone wonders if there's something about how Bruce is acting right now that he hasn't learned to look out for. Something the real Dick can see a mile away. The clone catches sight of Alfred, his lips turned into a frown, eyes narrowed. He can see it too. 

The clone has no idea. 

The idea that there's something he doesn't know about the tells of the _family_ before him shouldn't relieve him as much as it does.

"That's why," Bruce says, bringing the clones attention back to him, "if you would like, I would be _honored_ to-"

"Okay, B," Dick yells loudly, standing up from the table quickly, almost causing the chair behind him to fall backwards. "We need to talk."

Bruce raises an eyebrow, but when Alfred clears his throat, the man huffs and stands up, allowing Dick to grab him by his arm and drag him outside the dining room. 

It falls silent in the dining room, and it takes every ounce of will power the clone has to not say anything as he looks down at his plate and runs his fork through the syrup soaked pancakes. A hand appears in his vision and fills up his glass with chocolate milk. 

"Don't worry, young Master Dick," Alfred says softly. Kindly. And the clone realizes this is the first conversation he's had with the man since... since ending up back here. He blinks and looks up at Alfred, and all he sees is intense sincerity and warmth. Something in his chest loosens ever so slightly. "Master Bruce means well, but some habits cannot change easily. You are very welcome into this home, no matter what you decide when the time comes."

The clone brings his hand up to his cheek and wipes under his eye before anything can form.

"… Thank you Alfred."

"You're very welcome, young sir." Alfred smiles for just a flash, and then he flicks his eyes down to the clone’s still full plate. "Why don't you eat just a single helping to ease an old man's heart? We can figure out everything after."

The clone nods, and he thinks he might almost smile. Thankfully, Alfred turns away and allows the clone to reach forward and take a bite of delicious pancake goodness in silent companionship. 

The clone wonders how long this will last. 

He doesn't dwell on it. 

-o-o-o-o-

"Are… you sure?" Dick asks.

The clone nods and shuffles his feet on the carpet lining the long corridors of the manor. "I can't keep them from their home forever. I might as well just rip off the band-aid and get it over with."

Dick studies him for a second, and the clone can't help but shuffle again. After Dick and Bruce came back from whatever conversation they had, neither of them mentioned anything about what the argument was about. The clone could tell it was an argument because Bruce didn't say a single thing, just nodded at the clone and continued his second helping of pancakes in silence. 

The clone wonders if he gets as red in the face as Dick does when he gets angry. If his hands shake that much. 

Dick's calmed down now though, which is why the clone has cornered him in the hallway on a sorta unneeded tour, but one that was useful all the same. A lot of things have changed. Some wings have been completely rebuilt. Rooms are different… some look lived in. Vases are missing.

Dick kneels down in front of the clone and gives him a once over; a wrinkle placing itself comfortably between his brow. "Look…” he says slowly, “I was told to try to not do this… but I think you might need to hear this anyway."

Weariness fills the clone's veins, but he remains silent and Dick seems to flounder a little bit for words. 

Dick takes a deep breath and then looks the clone straight into his copied eyes. "I understand how you’re feeling. You've never wanted a new family. You’ve never wanted Bruce to be your dad. You're afraid of… what siblings could mean..."

The clone looks away, something icky settling in his stomach. 

Dick doesn't force the clone to look at him, but he keeps talking anyway. 

"I just want you to know that it's okay to feel that way. _I_ felt that way for a long time. If you don't want to meet the others because it makes you uncomfortable, then I won't force you. None of us will force you. We'll give you space until you're ready."

This is awful. The clone feels sick to his stomach. 

It takes him a second to find his words. It takes him a second to put words on the tip of his tongue that aren't _you don't know me_ and _stop pretending you care_. He swallows down his anger that doesn't belong to him. 

None of these feelings _belong_ to him. The clone never lost his parents, the clone wasn’t ever taken in as Bruce Wayne's ward, he doesn't _deserve_ to feel _any_ of this.

It’s all only inevitability before someone decides it's time to send him away. It's only a matter of time before he's determined too dangerous to keep here. 

So, instead of screaming his voice raw at Dick like he wants to, he takes a deep breath. 

"It's fine," he says, "don't worry about me. Besides, it's not like they're my actual siblings. I'm not Bruce's ward."

Dick's face pinches like that wasn't what he wanted to hear, but the clone turns around and walks away as quickly as he can. He wants to be alone. He wants to climb in a corner somewhere and _not_ exist. 

Instead, he ends up back in the room they're letting him stay in, his eyes immediately latch onto the stuffed elephant placed carefully on his bed. He stomps forward, grabs it by the trunk, then hurdles it out of the room and slams the door shut, breathing hard. 

It takes just a moment for angry tears to burst from his eyes. He locks the door with shaking hands, and he's sure his face is red. Then, he turns and collapses backwards so his back is almost stabbed by the doorknob. His knees give out and he sits there, staring at nothing, wishing he could sink _into_ nothing.

He sits there and begins to pathetically cry once again, but this time he simply doesn’t allow himself to make a sound.

-o-o-o-o-

A knock on the door. About an hour later. 

"Dick?"

The clone doesn't answer. 

"Dick, can we talk?"

Still no answer. 

"… Look, I think what I said was… I think it hurt your feelings more than helped you like I intended... I only want to help you."

Silence. 

"Dick, come on buddy, I'm-"

"Stop calling me that."

"… Wh-"

"Dick. Stop calling me that. I'm not _Dick_. I'm not _you_."

A beat of silence. An exhale. The clone curls tighter against the door and wrings his awful blank fingertips into the pants of his borrowed pajamas. 

"What would you like me to call you then?"

The clone opens his mouth. Them closes it. Does he want a name? Does he even deserve one?

"Kiddo, we need to call you something."

"I don't care. Call be anything. Just not…"

A body on the other side of the door shifts, and the clone wonders if Dick is sitting on the floor like he is, back against the door, elephant in his hands, probably checking for destruction. 

"How about this… how about we call you… John. We call you John, and you can tell us when to stop if you ever decide on something else." A beat. Then a quickly rushed afterthought. "Unless you don't want John, it can be anything-"

"John is fine."

The clone says it before he means to. He almost wants to take it back. John is still Dick's name. It's his middle name. It's his _dad's_ name. 

"Okay!" Dick says, and the clone can hear the strained smile in his voice. "John it is, them!"

The clone… John, he supposes… bites his lip. "What about… the others."

"If you want, we'll introduce you to them one at a time. I'm thinking Duke… or Tim first. Duke is really chill, but Tim also has… experience… and he's a sweet kid. They're all sweet kids."

John nods, then remembers the door is still locked and closed behind him. He wipes his cheeks and stands up, undoing the lock at opening the door to find Dick hastily standing up with Zitka in his hands. 

"Is that okay?" Dick asks, his eyes wide and… hopeful. 

Hope. That's what Dick is all about…. Right?

The- John takes a deep breath. "Yeah… yeah I think that's okay."

Dick's face splits into a giant grin, and before t-John can even try to escape, he's engulfed into a giant hug.

His- Dick's mom used to say he gave the best hugs. It seems like it's true. This is the best hug John’s ever had… or that he owns the artificial memory of having. 

Dick splits the hug and holds his hands on John's shoulders, thumbs and fingers finding the little grooves of his collarbone and shoulder blades, unconsciously kneading the muscles there. He still has a goofy grin on his face. John realizes it might be because somehow Zitka has ended up back in his arms. 

Of course Dick would still want him to have it. John can't imagine ever giving Zitka up to someone… but Dick's an adult now, and he's already gone so much out of his way just to make John somewhat comfortable here. 

"I'll talk to Tim then," Dick says, "I think he's the best choice."

"Okay," John replied, nodding slowly. "Is he the owner of these pajamas?"

Dick's face ripples in amusement. He smiles slightly, though this time it's more to himself. "No… Damian gave us permission for you to use his clothes. He's a little older than you. 13 years old…" Dick's eyes go far away, and then he blinks and shakes his head. "He might be someone you'll meet later, he's just as sweet as all the others, but can be a little… prickly."

John nods. As long as the sibling these clothes belong to knows that he's using them, then that's okay. He wonders.… Who Damian really is to Dick. He doesn't understand that far away look that passed by, but he can tell it must be something special. 

"You okay?"

John blinks, exiting his thoughts. He looks at Dick… then at the animal in his hands. He has the intense desire to hold it close to his chest and hug the life out of it in apology for throwing it earlier. 

Instead, he tries to force something that feels like a smile but might look more like a grimace. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Dick asks, and John simply shrugs. For throwing a scene? For existing? For everything?

He’s not sure. Dick opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then some sort of chime breaks through the silence and Dick pulls out a phone that’s definitely more advanced than what John thought a phone could even be. Dick looks at his phone for a second, and then gives a slight smile towards John.

“Speak of the devil, it’s Tim,” Dick says, his eyes soften from the name alone. “He’s wondering if you would want to meet him… apparently Kon’s free tomorrow and he thinks you two should meet while you’re at it. That is- just if you’re comfortable-?”

Kon? As in… Kon-El? Something so afraid and so hopeful twists in his chest, but he’s nodding before he can think too much about it. Dick smiles and begins to talk about how much fun tomorrow will be and John can do nothing but continue to nod along, trying to ignore how that twisting becomes a knot of anxiety.

He has a feeling that things are about to get a little bit better… or So. Much. Worse. 

Just… rip off the bandaid… right? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so some of you might be wondering if i settled on john, and im here to say no! i havent! basically, were gonna have some fun and maybe play around with names for a little while while john gets settled in and quits being such a precious angsty boy. 
> 
> thanks for reading! i would love it if you commented and told me what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> I mean, I'd ask if I should write more for this but I think I might just anyway. Let me know what you guys think! Thanks for reading <3


End file.
